Le Cirque des Rêves
by TabsEmSemble
Summary: A collaborative story; because I don't believe that we are the only ones who visit the Circus in our dreams.
1. The Circus is Here

_The Circus is here._

You've heard it all day; whispered to a friend, passed across you on a note. There are various theories as to how it got there, each as likely and unlikely as the next. The most popular guess is magic – but you're too old to believe in that, aren't you?

But there must be something magical about it for this many people to be talking about it so soon after its arrival. And you could really do with a night off. When you look up, the sky is heavy with rainclouds. Perhaps, if the rain holds off, you might give the circus a chance.

* * *

It is later now, and, in accordance with the promise you made yourself earlier, you are walking down the road to the circus, umbrella in hand – just in case. It is just after sunset, and the approaching darkness feels large enough to make you question whether coming here was truly wise. But there are plenty of people of people heading in the same direction as you, and the thrill of excitement is palpable in the air.

It is a long queue for an opening night, as if people have come from miles around. Surprising – you didn't think you'd seen any advertisements. Either way, you assume it must be a good sign.

Time passes strangely here. There's a lot going on around you, and you overhear countless fragments of conversation as you wait. But for all you see and hear, it does not feel like much time has passed when you reach the ticket booth.

You pay your admission, and are surprised when your ticket is not the easily-losable slip of paper you were expecting. Instead, you receive a small, flat disk of stone.

"Bluestone," You are advised. "Said to have magical properties." Her wink is your cue to move forward, and you feel the envious stares of those behind you on your neck.

You enter the circus.

* * *

**Hi. I'm Em. I just want to say that, as this is a collaborative fanfic with my friend Tabithatibi, I'm not sure if either of us really knows how this will go. So we'd really appreciate your feedback. We really hope you enjoy it!**

**~ Em**


	2. Secret Swapping

You expected fluorescent lights and bright colours, stalls selling tacky merchandise. What you get is very different. The lights, while some hurt to look at, are softer than most, more inviting, mysterious and hopeful. _Hopeful? How can lights be hopeful? _Somehow, the question doesn't seem very important just now.

Everything is in black and white; the only colour to be seen comes from the clothes of the other visitors – clouds of blue and green, dark pinks and the occasional yellow. And there is most certainly nothing tacky about the circus.

You stand in the courtyard, clutching your umbrella in one hand, the other feeling for the stone disk in your pocket. Everything is extraordinary; everything fantastical. You don't know what to do or where to go first. Eventually, you spot a booth selling hot chocolate, and you tag on to the end of the queue. When you finally purchase your drink, it is piled high with whipped cream and is topped off with chopped walnuts. It tastes like a cosy evening, and you feel yourself relax.

Something brushes your leg, and you glance down. It is a cat, its coat curiously ticked with black and white fur to give a strange, shimmering effect. You bend down, reaching out a hand tentatively. The cat responds eagerly, nuzzling into your palm and rubbing its jaw along your fingers.

After a few moments of this, the cat suddenly darts away through the crowd. You stand up, just in time to see it slip down a lantern-lit pathway. You have to start somewhere. Gulping the last of your hot chocolate, you hurry after the cat, passing tent after tent in pursuit of it.

Finally, you stop outside a small, somewhat shabby looking tent, which sits squeezed in between two larger ones. There is a small, scratchily written sign pinned to the black and white fabric of the tent. You squint at it, managing to make out the words

"Secrets Swapped".

You glance around, unsure of whether or not to go in. No one seems to be nearby – and you're sure the cat went into this particular tent …

Pushing aside the tent flap, you step inside. All is dark, except for a pinpricking of lights at the corner of your vision, which turns out to be a small hole in the side of the tent. All of a sudden, light flares at the centre of the tent.

You are startled to see a woman is sitting behind a small table, a gauzy vale draped over her head so that her features are obscured. The light is coming from a white flame that dances inside a glass bell-jar, creating flickering patterns that dance across the walls and ceiling of the tent.

The woman beckons you forward, and you feel obliged to obey her. Carefully, you take your place across from her, sitting on four-legged stool. There is a pause, and you wonder if she will say anything. Instead, she holds out a deck of cards and gestures for you to take one. Hesitating only slightly, you take a card and flip it over. Instead of the usual suit and number, there are words on the card. It says:

_Offer me a secret, I'll accept no lie, _

_My job is not to spy nor pry,_

_So in return I'll give you, _

_One secret – nay, I'll give you two,_

_One you know of old,_

_The other, unknown to you until tonight you're told._

You glance up, wondering how you can possibly give away a secret without speaking. The woman waves a hand delicately towards a fresh stack of cards which lies beside you on the table. You pick them up, shuffle them, and pick one at random. You breath a sigh of relief; it's not a very important secret. You hand it to the woman, who takes it without a word. Again she holds out the pack of cards to you and you take another. On one side is written your full name. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise up, but still you flip over the card. You stare at the words that are written upon it, and a shiver rattles down your spine. It is in this moment that you know that the magic of the circus is real. You look up to thank the woman, and find yourself plunged into darkness.

It is only later, when you have seen many more wonders, that you remember the strange-looking cat and realise that you never did find it again.

* * *

_Hello, hello, hello! It's Tabs this time, with chapter two! :) We hope you enjoy it - wasn't Em's chapter amazing? Also, please review ... pretty please ... _

_Tabs ~  
_


	3. The Pool of Sorrows

You're back outside now, still enamoured by the place's beauty. But now, a small sense of unease has diluted some of your wonder. You can't help but think about that secret – and all the ones which you were scared might have been unveiled. But it wasn't, and you know you should just relax – but you just can't seem to.

Lost in thought, you aren't paying much attention to where you are walking. You stumble slightly, and reach for a nearby canvas to steady yourself.

_The Pool of Sorrows,_

the sign on this tent says; in delicate, ornate writing which you would love to be able to reproduce. You rest your hand on the silver for a moment, pondering entering. _Melancholy_. That's the word you're looking for, and that's what this tent feels like. Quiet. Subdued.

Taking a deep breath, though you are unsure why, you push aside the fabric and step into the tent, pausing to pick up a pebble as instructed.

Inside – a pool, dark, seemingly bottomless except for the light patches, floating somewhere underneath the surface, which denote the presence of another stone like the one in your hand.

You wonder quite what it is that you should do. Drop the stone with the others, then leave? No, that doesn't feel right. Not right at all.

You sit down next to the water, trailing your fingers across its surface. The ripples you make seem to disappear abnormally fast. But a plethora of other thoughts knock this one from your head. You remember the other tent, and what might have happened. You think of all the secrets which could have come out, not just big ones, but all those tiny truths which you've been trying so hard not to acknowledge.

You move on from secrets to worries. About everything – yourself, your friends, your upcoming exams. Things that have kept you up at night for months.

All the while, you are aware of the pebble you are holding; how perfectly it fits into the palm of your hand. And with every thought it seems to grow slightly heavier – as if you are pouring your heart out into it.

You'll never find out how long you were sitting there for. No one interrupted you, and no sounds passed through the canvas walls to your ears. The sense of peace is blissful, must have come about through some form of magic. But you've already seen extraordinary things here tonight, and will soon see much more, so the logistics don't bother you. Not at present, anyhow.

When, finally, your head and your heart have quieted enough to be at one with the pool, you find you know exactly what you must do. It is with only a slight reluctance that you drop your pebble, though your eyes are too tight shut to see where it ends up, or to see the ripples that it leaves behind.

It's been a long time since you've felt as free and as light as you do when you leave that tent. But now, now you're truly ready to enjoy the Circus.

* * *

**So, Chapter 3. I won't turn this A/N into an argument over how Tabs's chapters are better than mine, but... :)**

**Any thoughts/suggestions/recommendations/ideas will be very gladly recieved! ~ Em**


	4. The Artist

The Artist

She stood in an old-fashioned grey dress and cowboy boots that had seen better days. Her hair, usually left free, had been pulled up into a messy knot at the back of her head, though a sizeable lock hung down at the side, curling over her shoulder in a black tangle. Her suitcase, clutched in front of her with both hands, was battered, and had the initials J.S stamped across the front in faded gold lettering.

'Enter,' the command came from somewhere in front of her, behind a closed door.

Without hesitating, she stepped forwards and pushed the door open, walking next into a long and narrow passageway which eventually led into the right wing of a stage. Realising she should probably present herself without further ado, she stepped into the limelight, blinking as it hit her full force.

'Benjamin!' The same voice that had bade her enter the room called the name swiftly and sharply, and the light was abruptly switched off.

'Sorry about that. Benjo's just a bit eager,' said the owner of the voice, which turned out to be a pleasant-looking man, about twenty-three years old, wearing a duffel coat, a scarf and a warm smile.

She gave him a small smile, all the while taking in her surroundings. The theatre was spacious, and must once have been very elegant; now, however, it had the air of being largely disused. The stuffing was leaking from some of the plush red seats, the paint was chipped and faded, and everything seemed to be covered in a thin layer of dust. She marvelled at it all, astonished at how different two theatre's could be – back at The Dragon, everything had been much newer and cleaner, but it had lacked the charm that this theatre so obviously still possesed.

With a start, she realised that the man was talking to her.

'… if you could just take a seat, and we'll begin.'

Glancing around, she spotted a rickety looking wooden chair, placed a couple of feet behind her. Pulling it forwards, she sat down and looked expectantly at the man.

Again, the man smiled.

'I'm Mr Clarke – Bailey to everyone who I don't find terribly boring, or those people who I haven't met.'

The girl smiled. 'I hope I'll be permitted to call you Bailey, then?'

'Certainly,' said Bailey, inclining his head ever-so-slightly, 'And what shall I call you?'

At these words, the girl hesitated for the first time, and a small frown appeared on her forehead.

'I – I should like to be known as The Artist, for the time being, until I know whether or not I have secured a place at your circus.'

If Bailey was surprised, he didn't show it. He was, after all, used to any number of strange things in his profession.

'Very well. And what is it that you would like to show us today?'

'I have … ' she paused, considering her words carefully, 'a certain talent, which I think might interest you.'

Bending forwards, she opened her suitcase, letting it fall open on the stage. As it opened, hundreds upon hundreds of pieces of paper cascaded from within, skidding across the stage to form a wide ark which fanned out from the point where The Artist stood. She did not look at all abashed; indeed, if one where to look closely, she appeared to be wearing a very faint smile of satisfaction.

'My talent,' she continued as if nothing had happened, 'is in my title. I am an artist with an unusual gift.'

As she spoke, she walked forwards across her paper, coming to stand at the front of the stage, exactly in front of Bailey. The pages behind her seemed restless; as she moved they muttered and shifted, all eager to be looked upon.

The Artist stooped and picked up a page from the ground, then handed it to Bailey. She watched as his eyes grew wide and he stared at the page in astonishment.

'It's moving … ' he whispered, almost to himself, 'How … You can make your pictures move?'

She smiled, and nodded.'Yes, I can make them move. But I think … ' she feigned curiosity as she glanced at the picture he was still studying, 'I think that magpie is trying to tell you something.'

No sooner had the words passed her lips than a sharp call echoed around the theatre, and Bailey almost dropped his page in surprise. A second call followed the first, echoing from the magpie which hopped and fluttered its wings from the page on which it was etched.

'I think … yes, I think that magpie is telling you that it wishes to be _free_.' She spoke the last word as a muttered whisper, and as she spoke it, she spun on the spot, so that she whispered it not just to the magpie, but to all the pages that littered the stage, and their muttering rose to a rushing, thrumming avalanche of noise, and their shifting changed to a fluid wave of motion.

And then, for one crystalline moment, there was complete silence and stillness within the theatre. In this moment, The Artist closed her eyes and waited, and from this moment came the beauty and the magic of imagination: for all around there were shapes forming in the air, and Bailey gasped in shock and wonder as the magpie on his page flew shimmering into the air. It was pale, translucent, no more than a whisper of colour in its whole being, but it flew, lucid and silent as smoke into the dusty air, gliding away until it was lost from sight. And then came the others, some gentle and full of goodness, others terrible and dark, but all beautiful and precious to all who beheld them. A tiger roared and snarled, pounding forwards and slashing the air a hair's breadth from Bailey's face with thorn-sharp claws comprised of dreams and murmured realities, before it leaped away, following the course the magpie had taken. A galleon creaked and tipped into view, its masts and sails detailed with fine silver vapour, riding on an ocean of pearly thoughts, while fish, pale and delicate as the wind, leapt and splashed around it. In its wake came a fox, chased bizarrely yet perfectly by a rabbit, whose eyes glistened with starlight. A great flapping of wings heralded at least twenty swans, their feathers like gossamer as they rose into the air. A cat, so pale one might have imagined it, leaped purring on to Bailey's lap, then suddenly, it faded, and so did all its fellows, leaving nought but dust swirling in the air.

For a moment, there was that complete stillness once again, before a small, enthusiastic round of applause came from somewhere above them – The Artist guessed that it was the overly-eager Benjamin who had almost blinded her earlier on. She looked nervously at Bailey, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Slowly, he picked up the piece of paper he had been given earlier on. The magpie was back on the page, hopping and fluttering once more. Bailey looked up at The Artist and slowly let a smile spread across his face once more.

'If it's quite all right with you, I'd like to make a request. Do you have the materials you need to make a sketch for me?'

'Of course – all I need is paper and something to draw with.'

Walking back to her suitcase, she took a sketchbook from inside, then a small leather pack, from which she removed a bundle of pencils, bound together with a rubber band.

'What would you like me to draw? And do you want it in colour?'

Bailey beckoned her forwards and when she was close enough, he whispered his request to her. She smiled and nodded.

'Colour, if you don't mind.'

'Not at all.'

She worked carefully, her fingers moving delicately but swiftly across the page. No other person made a sound as she worked, completely mesmerised by what they had just experienced. No one knew for how long they sat in wait, but when she eventually raised her head and nodded, it seemed to have been both an age and but a second.

The Artist stood, and blew gently on the page, and it seemed to Bailey that she was blowing life into the picture. He heard her mutter the word 'free', and saw wisps of dew-speckled mist taking form in the air. They were faintly coloured, translucent but so definitely there he knew at once that she had succeeded in what he had asked.

And then, before anyone realised it had come into being, a giant oak tree stood in the centre of the stage, it's ghostly leaves rustling slightly in a breeze that came from nowhere. It was beautiful, its misty form coloured green and brown, the ground around it strewn with barely visible acorns.

'That's it,' breathed Bailey, 'that's just how it always was.' Tearing his gaze from the tree of his childhood, he looked once more at The Artist. 'I doubt I need to tell you, but you've got a home now with the circus, if you'll take it.'

The Artist beamed, and took a bow.

'Gladly.'

'Now then,' Bailey coughed and tried to assume a slightly more professional manner, 'there are a few things I should like to know, if it's not too much trouble.'

'Of course not,' replied the girl, fetching her chair and bringing it further forward, past the oak tree.

'Your age?'

'Sixteen and a half years old.'

'You currently live in London, correct?'

'Yes – but I was born in Cornwall.'

'Really? Well, I'm sure we can arrange for the Circus to visit Cornwall again some time soon,' said Bailey kindly.

'Thank you. Is there anything else?'

'Yes – just the one thing. May we know your name now?'

'I'm afraid I don't have one.'

'But your suitcase – the initials?'

'Oh … that's just something I found at home. Those initials aren't mine.'

Bailey didn't seem to know quite what to say. Finally, he settled upon the politest thing he could think of.

'Well … would you like a name?'

'Oh, yes, very much. But when I tried to ask for one, no one ever listened.'

'I will,' said Bailey quietly.

The girl watched him for a few moments before leaning forward and whispering to him as he had whispered to her.

Bailey nodded, and wrote down the three words she had whispered into a large book. Next to them, he wrote 'The Artist'.

Standing up, he gave her a last warm smile.

'We'll expect you tomorrow, before sunset.'

She dipped her head. 'I'll be there.'

She had gathered up all her paper apart from the sheet on which she had drawn the oak tree.

'You can keep it, if you want. It seems important to you.'

'Thank you.'

She left the stage, her footsteps echoing down the passageway, leaving nothing behind her but Bailey's oak tree drawing – the tree itself had vanished.

'Welcome to the circus, Atlanta Aurelia Newman.'

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed it! Any reviews would be welcome. :) Oh, by the way: Em's chapter's are ridiculously amazing, and she should really know that, too. :)  
_

_And Em - I couldn't resist adding JS in there. :P  
_

_Tabs ~  
_


	5. Until Sunset

**:D**

* * *

Bailey is stressed – almost visibly so, had anyone been paying attention. But it is only he and Benjamin here at present, the others too busy to help. They do this type of thing every so often; search out additions, fresh blood. Mostly, people come seeking them, people who know their talent is needed or wanted, and Bailey has to say that he much prefers it that way. It is, of course, he who has to break the news of rejection to those whose talents cannot benefit the Circus. There are very few things he dislikes about his job, but this is one of them.

But the day is nearing its end, and he doubts many more people will arrive. Suppressing a sigh, he calls for the next potential performer to enter.

A girl enters, perhaps in her late teens, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. And as her eyes meet Bailey's, his stress disappears completely. In surprise, he glances away, expecting Celia or Marco. But when their eye contact breaks, his previous feelings return, and it is most definitely only the three of them in the auditorium. Shaking himself slightly, he turns back the girl. Her smile tells him that she understands his confusion, though she does not wait for him to speak.

'Auras. Are they real?' She asks. Unaccustomed to receiving this type of question, Bailey flounders for a moment, before beginning to ponder his answer. To the girl, it seems like a long time passes before he decides upon a reply with which he is happy.

'I would suppose that that would depend on how you perceived reality.'

The girl does not reply, though she nods slowly. The pause lengthens, until Bailey deems it would be rude to allow it to continue. He looks up –

And there it is. Surrounding her, like a force field, but infinitely softer, more colourful, more beautiful. Her aura.

It's not like anything he's ever imagined. It's all the stories, all the myths and the legends and the fairy tales all blended together, merged into one big – aura. There's no other word that he can think of for it. He can barely form a coherent thought. It's exquisite.

After a time, he realises how impolite his staring must appear. He searches out Benjo, hoping for a confirmation on his thoughts. Because unlike anything Celia and Marco could show him, he doesn't believe that this is an illusion. Maybe this is all part of her act, but if it is, it's good enough to fool him. Looking at Benjamin's face though, he can tell the boy can see this too.

It's not just written on Benjamin's face, though. It's all around him, surrounding him in the array of colours that describe him so perfectly, so thoroughly, that Bailey loses all doubt: this is real.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Bailey takes a long, deep breath. 'Forgive me,' He tells the girl. 'This is- a lot to take in.'

'I can make them… disappear, if you would prefer?' As she speaks, her colours begin to fade- no, not fade. To blend in, to disappear into the background. He doesn't know why that distinction is important, but he it most definitely is.

'Thank you. I must say, I have rarely seen something so beautiful. But I fear I have forgotten my manners. Welcome to _Le Cirque Des __Rêves. _I'm Bailey Clarke. May I enquire your name?'

'Evangeline Maddock.'

'Miss Maddock. I think you can see how stunned I am. That truly was extraordinary.'

'Thank you.'

'But I have to wonder- from the perspective of the Circus, how exactly would you fit in? You've visited us before, I presume?'

'Indeed.' It is clear that she had been expecting this question; she lifts her head up high, straightens her shoulders. Almost as if she had been trained to deliver a speech.

'I didn't come here tonight because I wanted employment as a performer, though I have great respect of your entire spectacle. You've seen – and felt – what I can do. I'd like to use that. I wish to be a… counsel, of sorts, to you. I have spent many a night in exploration of your Circus. But I learn more than just the contents of the tents. I can see, exactly, how people are feeling. I can tell you what works perfectly, or what needs adding to. Where a spot feels sad, or empty. Though it would take a cold heart to criticise the Circus, nothing is unable to be improved. At risk of sounding impolite, I believe that its executives are too close to it. Its beauty blinds you, quite rightfully. But it is a well known fact that beauty also exists in change. I can offer you a fresh perspective – not my own, but the whole worlds. Every patron, all their opinions of every second spent here. I can give you access to that.'

Throughout the speech, Bailey has been nodding slowly. But his thoughts have been stuck on a single line.

'You can manipulate them too, can't you? The auras, I mean. You changed how I was feeling when you entered.'

'I did. I – I'm sorry for that. I had to give you proof, somehow, of what I can do. It will not happen again.'

'No. Miss Maddock – permit me, Evangeline; do not feel guilt on my behalf. A show of your powers was necessary, and you have caused no harm.'

'I have caused no harm today.' She corrects him. She can see him grow curiouser, but his reply remains the same as it had before she spoke.

'If you are willing, Miss Maddock, it would be my pleasure to invite you to the Circus. You are right; we are too fond of the place. Any form of change would be most welcome.'

'Be wary of your words, Mr Clarke. Not all changes are for the best. However, it would give me the greatest happiness to accept your invitation. I thank you.'

Bailey stands; expecting the interview to be over, but the girl still has one final thing to say.

'There is one thing which past experience dictates I must make clear to you, though I do not wish to sound rude. I will not abuse my power, Mr Clarke, no matter the situation.

He cannot know how thankful she is of his instant understanding.

'We would not expect you to. In the end, though, that decision remains with you. Now, will we be seeing you tomorrow?'

'Without a doubt.'

'Until sunset, then.'

'Until sunset.'

* * *

**I apologise for the wait. I feel I should mention that both of us have exams at the moment, so I know for em, at least, updating is likely to be slow. Let me know what you thought about this chapter - it took me a long time to decide on a character. Anyway.**

**Until sunset,**

**~ Em**


	6. The Magpie

The Magpie

Atlanta smiled as she read the sign that hung outside what was to be her tent. 'The Artist' it read, the writing flourishing in a neat and contained sort of way. Stepping inside the tent, Atlanta's smile widened.

'You can design it yourself,' Bailey had said, 'seeing as you're an artist.'

He had been true to his word. The tent was completely bare, just black and white canvas stretching high and wide. She was glad they had given her such a big tent. It would help with the display.

Setting down her suitcase, Atlanta closed her eyes and spun around, letting her arms fly out as she turned in circles, laughing not out of amusement, but amazement that she was finally here. Free. Her own master, with a job, a future, a destiny she could choose. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world, simply to exist on her own terms. She slowed to an abrupt halt and staggered, the tent swimming before her eyes.

Letting herself fall to the floor, Atlanta automatically hugged her legs close to her body, resting her chin on her knees. She didn't even realize she was doing it until a sound outside startled her, and she instantly sprang apart, then guiltily drew back into herself. She knew she must look ridiculous; a sixteen year old girl sitting drawn into a bundle on the floor, staring around in wide-eyed wonder. But that was how she was, and it would take some time for her to shake off her childhood, if she ever did. She was used to sleeping in cramped store cupboards and stuffy dressing rooms, speaking only when spoken to and working all hours of the day, escaping only when there were too many people milling around for her to be missed in the crowd. Life at the circus would be very different.

Atlanta frowned, suddenly leaping to her feet and giving herself a brief shake. She had better get started with decorating her tent – sunset was only five hours away, and she needed not only to decorate her entire tent, but to visit the wardrobe department to have the finishing touches added to her costume. She smiled in anticipation. She hadn't seen it yet, but apparently it was beautiful.

_The hair was washed and combed, the skin rubbed with oils and pumice stones, then whitened with powder until it appeared to be made of porcelain. They slipped a dress over her head that was constructed entirely from feathers, with an inner petticoat of silk. It floated around her ankles, seeming to rest gently upon the air, the ghost of flight still present in its feathers. _

_They painted rims of gold round her eyes and left a dusting of blue shimmering on her cheeks, as if she had been crying and the tears were still fresh upon her face. They pinned feathers in her hair and made her like a bird, streaked black and white. _

_'The magpie,' she whispered, when they showed her a mirror. She was ready to perform._

* * *

_A very short chapter I'm afraid, but as Em says, we have exams. :( But as of today, no more Spanish for me, ever! Hooray!  
_

_Tabs ~  
_


	7. Freya

_You emerge from a tent into silence. It's not the usual stillness of the Circus, though – somehow it feels tense, wrong. You look around, and realise with a start that you are not quite alone. A small distance away from you stands a girl, her hands covering her shaking face._

_You approach her, enquire of her wellbeing. At first you had thought she was one of the Circus, but now, closer, you can see that the black dress is actually the deepest, darkest silver, as if she is-_

_But then, suddenly, the thought is wiped from your head, along with any others which might have appeared. Now, all that holds your attention is your need to walk away. And you do so, without looking back._

_Maybe if you had, you might have remembered this moment later._

_Maybe if you had, you would have seen the girl breaking down into uncontrollable sobs._

Getting back to her tent is a blur. Her tent. Mere hours ago, it had all seemed so magical, so surreal and amazing – she had her own _tent_. But finding an escape from everything hasn't been as easy as she had thought.

What was it she'd said to Bailey? 'I will not abuse my power.' Abuse her power – it had been almost the first thing she had done tonight. Despite all the promises, all the accusations and threats she had made to herself, she had lost control. She'd gone out to join the crowds, but it had all been too much, she'd been surrounded, and crushed, and she'd panicked, and –

And then there was no one around her, no one at all. As if they'd all been ordered to leave. Remembering, the girl begins to cry again. She knows how pathetic she must look, sitting drawn into a bundle on the floor, tears dripping down onto her knees, but she can't help it.

'Evangeline?' The voice comes from just outside the entrance. She bids them enter as she hurriedly wipes the moisture from her eyes.

Two people follow Bailey into the room; roughly the same age as him, both with bright red hair, and something in their body language which tells Evangeline that they are related. She gets to her feet, aware of how ridiculous she must look. She chokes down the colours, not wanting to see their judgements, not wanting to know.

'Evangeline, I'd like you to meet Poppet and Widget, my... co-conspirators.'

Poppet laughs. 'He gives us a new job title every time he introduces us to someone.' She explains, holding her hand out. 'It's nice to meet you. Bailey's told us lot about you. And you're going to be important, I can tell.' Unsure of how to respond, the younger girl remains silent as she shakes the proffered hand. 'And this is my brother, Widget.'

He smiles as he steps forward, but when he meets her eyes it is all she can do not to gasp and shy away. Those eyes- so familiar, so similar to ones she used to know. Just a coincidence, she's sure, but old memories are reawakening, ones she's tried so hard to forget. She can't focus through the rest of the conversation, can't concentrate on anything but keeping the emotions locked out of sight. She struggles to remain polite, not sure whether she manages it. Yes, she's been outside, but no, she thinks she'll need more time, to get used to it all. Yes, it's lovely, it's fantastic. No, it's perfect. Finally, finally, they're leaving, and it won't be long before she can collapse in on herself, before she can just let go.

At the flap, Widget turns back to her. Bailey and Poppet have already left, but he still has something to say.

'Freya.' She freezes, unable to speak, or think, or anything. 'That's your real name, isn't it?' She nods, but the fear must be obvious on her face, for he quickly continues. 'It's okay, I won't say anything. That's for you to tell if you want them to know.'

'I-'

'Don't worry about it. Please. All I wanted to say was, I'm sorry. About what happened earlier. It must have been horribly overwhelming for you.' The auras, she realises. He knows.

'It's... harder than I'd imagined. There's so many people, so many feelings.'

He smiles knowingly, and she suddenly realises to what extent he understands. 'I know that's how Poppet feels sometimes, when she sees something unexpected. She can see the future.' He adds in explanation. 'And I can see the past. So I guess we can... appreciate the problems better than most people.'

She knows he's offering her help, someone to talk to, and she doesn't know how to tell him just how grateful she really is.

'Thank you.' She whispers.

'Just as long as you're okay. I'll leave you alone now, but one last thing. Freya – that boy, the one with eyes like mine... He would have forgiven you, if you'd let him. Remember that.'

And with that, he disappears, leaving her shaken and stunned.

* * *

**Okay, so it seems like revision-procrastination won out over what I'm supposed to be doing, so this was a lot quicker than expected. Oh well. :)**

**Hope you like it! **

**~ Em**


	8. Of Shattered Pasts and Shedded Tears

Atlanta shivered, pushing the collar of her coat up and setting off across the courtyard, her boots clattering on the ground, seeming louder than normal in the heavy silence that surrounded her. She stopped beside the bonfire, her face lit up by the white flames that rose and flickered in the cold air, chasing themselves higher and higher, falling back and starting their gradual climb once more.

The wind had turned icy shortly before dawn, driving out the last few visitors and leaving the circus empty except for the performers, most of whom had left for a local tavern where they were intending to have something of a celebration; it had been their last night in London, and they would be leaving for Paris at around midday.

Atlanta had not felt like joining them. It wasn't that the evening had gone badly; on the contrary, Atlanta's performances had been met with great applause by everyone who had visited her tent, and Bailey had even come in to congratulate her on the success of her opening night.

No, it was more the prospect of leaving London for the first time which made her unwilling to join the other performers. She had never known anything but London (she had been in Cornwall for such a short time after her birth that she could remember nothing) and though she had spent her life wishing for an escape from everything she knew, now it came to it she was surprisingly nervous about leaving. The one thing Atlanta had wanted more than anything else since she was just a little girl was her freedom. Now she had it, she was afraid at every moment that somehow she might lose it again.

Wrapping her arms about herself, Atlanta moved away from the bonfire, her mind still caught up in her past as she wandered aimlessly among the tents, hardly watching where she stepped.

She didn't know for how long she walked like this, relishing the feeling of having the empty circus to herself, when she was roused from her thoughts by a soft sighing sound. Atlanta paused to listen. The sound came again; it seemed to shudder in the crisp dawn air, trembling delicately. Atlanta swallowed, glancing about her with a small frown upon her face. She had heard that sound before, from the Pool of Sorrows, but she was no where near there, and besides, all the visitors had long since left.

The sound came from a tent to her right, one Atlanta had never before visited. Slowly, taking care not to move too suddenly and startle whoever was inside, Atlanta slipped inside the tent.

It was very dark in the tent, the light from outside not yet strong enough to penetrate the fabric of the tent.

Atlanta closed her eyes, then opened them, hoping to grow accustomed to the dark. She couldn't make out much of the furniture, but the small sighing sounds continued from somewhere to her left.

'Hello?' Atlanta winced winced as she spoke, hoping she hadn't frightened whoever it was making the sounds.

There was a gasp, then the snap and hiss of a match being struck. Before Atlanta could glimpse the person who had struck the match, a candle was sputtering to life, giving out a glow far stronger that the match.

'Hello?' said Atlanta again, squinting as she attempted to see past the light of the candle. Whoever was holding it up was obscured by the brightness of its light, though Atlanta could see their hand was trembling slightly, and she felt a surge of guilt. Had she startled them that badly?

'Hello,' said the unknown person, and Atlanta heard that it was a girl. Her voice was thick with tears, and Atlanta felt pity welling up inside her.

'I, erm … I heard you from outside,' she ventured, 'I just came to see if you were all right.'

The girl set the candle down on the ground beside her, and for the first time, Atlanta saw clearly what she looked like: long dark hair framing a pretty face, though her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She wore a dark silver dress, and she couldn't have looked more desperate.

Atlanta shook her head, realising that she had been staring, but when she looked again at the girl's face, she saw that her eyes were seeking out Atlanta's features just as curiously as Atlanta had looked at her. And, was it Atlanta's imagination, or was the girl looking at the air just beside Atlanta, her eyes lit up with a keen interest?

The girl suddenly seemed to become aware of her staring, just as Atlanta had a few moments before.

'Please, sit down,' she said, gesturing to the ground in front of her, 'I'm sorry, I don't have much furniture yet … '

Atlanta smiled and sat in front of her, deciding for the minute to keep her coat on.

She stuck out her hand to the girl, saying as she did so, 'My name's Atlanta. Atlanta Newman.'

The girl took her hand and shook it. 'Evangeline,' she replied, though the name sounded forced upon her tongue, 'Evangeline Maddock.'

'That's a lovely name,' said Atlanta, though she instantly regretted it as Evangeline's eyes filled with tears.

'Sorry,' she said hurriedly, 'I didn't mean any harm … Are you OK?'

Her cheeks immediately flushed with embarrassment; of course Evangeline wasn't OK, she wouldn't be crying if she were.

'I – I mean – '

'No, it's OK. I understand,' responded Evangeline, offering a weak smile through her tears.

Atlanta smiled. 'I hope I didn't startle you earlier,' she said, 'I certainly didn't mean to.'

'No, no – don't worry, you didn't,' said Evangeline, wiping her eyes, 'I'm sorry,' she added, 'you must think I'm so pathetic … '

Atlanta pictured herself curled into a ball on the floor of her tent only a few hours ago.

'No,' she said softly, 'you're not pathetic. Is … is there anything I can do? You don't have to tell me what's wrong.'

Evangeline looked at her, and she smiled sadly.

'Thank you. It's very kind, but no one can do anything. It's all in the past now.'

She looked as though she might cry again, but she held her tears in bravely.

Atlanta frowned, thinking of her own past. She suddenly felt ten times more pity for Evangeline. Slowly, her throat somewhat dry, she began to speak.

'You know, I never had a home until I came here. I used to live in a theatre, in London. 'The Dragon', have you heard of it?'

Evangeline shook her head, and Atlanta nodded as if she had been expecting this response.

'I didn't think so. It wasn't the best of theatres. Very modern, but it had no charm. No life to the place. Not like here.'

Atlanta paused, wondering how much she could say.

'I had no family there. No one. My … ' she hesitated, wondering how best to express her meaning, '… my guardian, although he does not deserve that title, was the theatre manager. He had no interest in me, he only kept me to help out with the performances. Running errands and the like.'

Again, Atlanta hesitated. She had never told anyone what she was about to reveal to the distraught Evangeline. She had never even spoken about her life to anyone, and suddenly she wondered how much she was speaking to comfort Evangeline, and how much in order that someone would finally know, if not everything, then at least some of her story.

Evangeline was watching her, an unfathomable expression upon her face.

'He used to punish me … often without reason. He said it was a taste of what I would get if I ever ran away. I had to walk on this bed of nettles and thorns he would spread out on the ground. That was just for making some small mistake … when he wanted to really frighten me, he … ' Atlanta took a great breath, her fingers fumbling as she undid the buttons of her coat. She slipped it off, revealing her feather dress and her bare arms, pale in the light that was spreading slowly through the tent.

'He would take out his penknife.'

Atlanta's voice caught in her throat as she revealed the underside of her arms. Evangeline let out a barely audible gasp, her gaze darting between Atlanta's eyes and the spreading latticework of paper-fine scars that laced Atlanta's arms. Evangeline finally tore her eyes from the scarring to find Atlanta's eyes once more.

'I'm so sorry, Atlanta …' she began, clearly not knowing quite what to say. Atlanta cut in, her voice trembling slightly.

'I just – I just wanted to tell you,' she said, 'I just thought it might help. You see, everyone's got a past here, Evangeline. You're not alone.'

For a moment there was silence within the tent. It was now full of light, spilling over the two girls and making the drying tear-tracks on both their cheeks glisten gently.

Evangeline suddenly took both of Atlanta's hands in hers and gripped them firmly.

'Thank you,' she said, her voice fervent, as though she was trying to convey everything she felt in just two words. 'You've been very honest with me and I think … I think you deserve the same honesty in return. My name – it's Freya, not Evangeline.'

She gave a sudden smile, 'Do you still think it's lovely?'

Atlanta laughed, 'Oh yes. And it suits you better.'

Freya let go of Atlanta's hands.

'Can I ask just one thing?'

'Of course.'

'Would you mind not telling anyone about my name?'

'I swear I won't tell a soul.'

'Thank you. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop running from my past, and perhaps you won't be able to either, but at least we can run together.'

Atlanta laughed again and nodded, then stood up and offered her hand once more to Freya.

'Are you ready to see Paris?'

* * *

_:) Here we go - I hope you liked it. Any reviews will be greatly appreciated. :D_

_Tabs ~_


	9. The Secrets the Colours Hold

**Sorry about the wait - for excuses, see my last chapter. XD**

* * *

Paris. They were going to _Paris. _Just last night, Freya hadn't been able to stop the tears from flowing; now, however, it's a smile which she can't keep off her face. Paris. She's never been before, and she can't quite pin down the reason for her excitement. Is it simply the fact that she's going somewhere new? Or the joy she can feel exuding from those around her? Or perhaps it's just that the morning has dawned bright and fresh, and that the sun is shining through the canvas of her tent.

Also, she thinks to herself, she has made a new friend. She's never seen two auras which are the same, but even so, there had been something incredibly special about Atlanta's. Not just the colours inside it, either: it was so open, despite all that she had been through. And yet... There had been something else about it, too, something Freya can't quite put her finger on. Maybe she would just have to look again.

Auras aside, though, she _does_ want to see Atlanta again. She feels something of a debt towards the girl; she can't say how grateful she had been for those words. And – well, Atlanta had been so honest, so open and trusting with her, and what had she given back? A name. It didn't seem a fair trade, all that for a mere name. So Freya was going to attempt to share her past, too – although she has to wonder if _attempt_ will be the key word here. She'd thought that she would just be able to start a new life here, and be able to pretend that nothing had ever happened. She'd wanted to put it all in the past and move on. That had been naive, she supposed. But now was not the time for welling. Now was the time for – well, for finding out where she could find Atlanta, actually. This is the biggest flaw in her plan, one she hadn't quite thought through.

She looks around her tent. She'd been instructed that she could leave it however she wanted, and that everything would be sorted out for their journey. Well, there was only one sure-fire way to find her friend, and she doesn't think she can procrastinate any longer. She'll have to brave the outside world. Laughing aloud at how silly she sounds, she grabs a coat and steps out into the sunlight.

Outside, Freya wanders. It's invigorating to have lost the time constraint of dusk until dawn, and to be free to do as she wishes. The last time she had visited the Circus, she had seen this section as off-limits; but now her options seem endless. She can tell that most of the tents she passes by are empty, though the spiralling pathways are most definitely alive with the behind-the-scenes bustle. The volume seems to be rising with the sun – no trace of the night's stunned silences is left.

At last, she spots a familiar set of colours. She can see immediately how much more relaxed Bailey is than he had been when she first met him, though a tiny twinge of exasperation still remains. He looks up and smiles when she approaches, but his attention is soon ripped away by a young boy. Ah. This seems the be the source of Bailey's frustration. A few words later, the boy bounds off, reminding her somehow of an inquisitive puppy.

'Evangeline.' Bailey greets her, and she links, still not entirely accustomed to being addressed as such. 'How went your opening night?'

Well, she's trying to be more honest. She sighs. 'Not as well as I had hoped. I hadn't quite anticipated the... scope of the place. But I'll keep working at it. I promised you every opinion, and that's what I intend to deliver.'

' Thank you. I'm glad you're dedicated. Although – don't overwork yourself now, will you? As much as we value opinions, we don't want that.'

'I'll try not to.' She answers with a grin.

'Now, is there anything I can help you with?' He asks.

'As a matter of fact, there is, actually. I was wondering if I could ask you a question.'

'Of course.'

'Thank you. Well, I'm looking for Atlanta, but I don't really know where to find her. I was wondering if you could give me some idea?'

'Atlanta? Yes – well, actually, I can give you better than an idea. Benjo!' He calls, and the young boy she saw scampers up, seeming to appear from thin air.

'Celia was really busy, but I asked Marco, and he said-' The boy, maybe nine or ten, screws up his face in concentration.' 'He said that it's almost sorted, he just needs few more things and a bit more time. And then I saw Widget, and he said that I should do a performance pretending to be a puppy, but I think he was just joking because-'

Bailey cuts him off with a laugh. 'Yes, he was joking Benjo. We've got much more important things for you to do than pretend to be a puppy. Benjamin, this is Evangeline. Evangeline, Benjo, also known as the only reason the circus runs smoothly.' Benjo nods proudly, and Bailey ruffles his hair.

'I've got another job for you, Benjo. D'you remember you helped put up some tents yesterday? Well, you know the one which was closest to Isobel's tent?'

'The one that was closest to the fence except for those ones which-'

'That's right. Well, close enough. Now, would you escort Evangeline there for me? She's looking for Atlanta.'

'The one who drew me the picture?'

'That's right.'

'Okay! Follow me, Evangeline.' Beaming, the boy bounces off, leaving Freya behind completely.

'Benjamin!' Bailey shouts after him. 'You might have to slow down!'

* * *

Responding to Bailey's call, Benjo had returned and taken Freya's hand firmly in his. Now, he's pulling her along, not pausing for even a moment. He obviously knows the Circus well.

'Have you always lived here?' She asks him.

'No. Just since I was eight.'

'Ah. And how old are you know?'

'Ten. Bailey says, when I'm eleven, I might be allowed my own tent.' His excitement shows in their increased pace. She continues to ask him questions, curious as to how he got here, but the answers are those of an impatient young boy, and she cannot gleam much from them.

Soon, Benjamin comes to abrupt stop, and indeed, parts of the fence are just visible beyond the next curl of tents.

'This is Atlanta's tent.' He tells Freya.

'Thank you very much, Benjamin.'

'You're welcome, Evangeline.' And with that he disappears off once more.

'Atlanta?' Freya calls softly, not knowing the protocol on tents – should she attempt to knock, or just enter, or- But a slightly muffled voice bids her enter, interrupting her thoughts. She does as instructed, seeing the blue-silver of Atlanta's aura before she sees the girl herself. She'd been struck last night by its colouring, though she hadn't really been in a state to appreciate it then. Now, though, she is awed. It isn't a sad blue: somehow, it's strong, wise, with hints of silver the likes of which she's rarely seen before. There are other colours too – but these are fainter somehow, almost as if Atlanta is trying to pull them in, or get rid of them. A burnt, rusty orange – fear? And there, nearly disguised by the strong-blue, a deeper navy tome. This Freya recognises without a doubt. Sadness.

She meets Atlanta's eyes.

'Are you okay?' Freya asks quietly. The other girl smiles slightly, and it seems like the colours become more and more transparent.

She answers with another question. 'Are you?'

'I don't know.' Freya admits. 'But what you said last night really helped me, and I realised that I never really said thank you for it. So thank you, Atlanta. Really. And, I know it's not much, but, well – you trusted me. If you'd let me, I'd like to return that favour.'

Though she doesn't speak, a cyan vein of interest twines itself around the younger girl. Freya takes a deep breath.

'Okay. Right. I guess I'd better start at the beginning then. Are you sitting comfortably?' At Atlanta's nod, she begins.

'I was born in a little town in Wales- barely more than a village, really. When I was little, I would amuse my parents by describing the colours of people. They thought I was just making it up, but they were surprised by how accurate I could be. As I got older, it began to scare them. I always seemed to know how they were feeling, even if they tried to hide it from me. By the time I was eight or nine, they were terrified. They tried to make me stop – they never _did_ anything, not like - but, well, they discouraged me Sent me to my room for saying it, that sort of thing. When I was ten, they thought it had all been in my imagination.

I could still see the colours though. When I was twelve, I found a name for them. Atlanta, I can – I can see auras.'

She stops, needing a reaction, but once again unable to search the colours which have always told her these things. Because she doesn't think she can bear it if her only friend here shuns her as well.

Atlanta blinks, twice. And then, very slowly, she nods.

'I suppose that makes sense. You- look around me before you look at me.' She explains. 'I wondered why, but...'

'So – you're okay with it?'

Nobody else would doubt Atlanta's earnest response. Then again, no one else would see the emotions surrounding it. That rusty orange – fear, worry – is back.

Freya's face falls. 'I'm sorry.' She whispers. 'I'll go, I'll—'

'No. Please don't go. And don't be sorry, not on my account.'

'But I'm scaring you, I'm-'

'Freya. Stop.' Her voice drops, just above a whisper now. 'That's not because of you. I promise.'

For a moment, Freya closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. Maybe there's a lie in Atlanta's words. But maybe not. And once again she doesn't want to see.

'Thank you.' She says, eventually. She isn't quite sure what for. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Could you – could you carry on with your story? If you don't mind.'

'Of course. Well, people heard rumours. They became scared of me too. Treated me as if I were a witch. Hardly anyone would talk to me, in the end. Except for my little brother. Christopher. Christopher Morgan Maddock. He was seven years younger than me, exactly, and he – well, idolised me, I suppose. He didn't know to be scared; he trusted me. And I loved having him there. I loved him.'

She stops, and rubs a hand across her face almost wearily. Then she continues, faster now, the words tripping over themselves in their rush to get out. As if they'll disappear if she waits too long.

'When I was fifteen, I realised I could do more than just see auras. If I wanted to – if I _needed _to, I could change them, too. Manipulate them. It first happened as a survival instinct, of course. Some girls a couple of years older than me – well, that doesn't matter here. But it was hard to manipulate them; tiring. I wanted to practise, though. I wanted to be powerful. Christopher helped me. He was my guinea pig, he didn't mind. And I didn't ever want to do anything to hurt him.

She takes a rasping breath, her voice thicker with the knowledge of what comes next. 'And then I killed him. I don't know what happened – I was just practising, and – and he just fell down, just dropped to the floor – and I didn't know what to do, he wasn't breathing, and I could see his aura just fading – his lovely, lovely aura. And it was all my fault. So – so I ran. I killed my brother and ran away.'

She feels arms around her, trying to calm her shudders. She's never spoken any of this aloud before, never told anyone what she is. Because she is, isn't she? She's a murderer.

* * *

Atlanta keeps her arms around Freya, wishing there was a better way to help. Maybe she should be scared, maybe she should have bolted as soon as she'd found out Freya's talent.

But Freya has overlooked Atlanta's past. Growing up in a theatre, she has learned to tell when people are acting. Acting, or trying to convince themselves that a lie is the truth. So it isn't that hard for the younger girl to realise that something else is going on here. To realise that Freya is lying, not just to Atlanta, but also to herself.

Maybe she should have run away. But that way, she'd definitely never find out the truth.

* * *

**Well. That was fun. It used to end at 'murderer', but I thought that was really rather mean. Hope you liked it!**

**~ Em**


	10. Trains, Rain and Hot Chocolate

_Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? But I can now say that Em and I have a rather clearer idea of what we're both planning. :) And here's the chapter. Not my best, but I think it was needed._

* * *

Trains, Rain and Hot Chocolate

The train rattled its way through the French countryside, its windows a blur of autumn landscapes. Dusty golds. The sweet scent of fading flowers musty in the air. A rustle of disturbed leaves. Fields, trees and rivers flashed past, all looking remarkably similar to their English counterparts.

Atlanta sat in her compartment, gazing out of the window, wondering why she didn't yet feel the wonderful thrill of escape, of freedom, of excitement at the prospect of travelling to foreign lands. Yes, she had felt it when she first joined the circus, just a couple of days ago. Now all she felt was a hard knot of anxiety deep within her. Anxiety about what, she wasn't sure.

Atlanta sighed, running a hand through her hair before drawing herself back into a ball, her legs pressed up against her body. Well, that was a lie for a start. She knew exactly what made her so anxious. What if running away with the circus wasn't enough? What if he found her, even in Paris, and dragged her back to the life she had so desperately wanted to leave?

A knock on the door startled Atlanta out of her brooding. Before she could even call out 'Come in', however, the door burst open to reveal Benjamin, looking ready to burst with excitement and still clutching the doorknob.

'Atlanta! Atlanta, guess what? Guess what?'

'Erm … '

'Bailey says – he says we'll be in Paris_ within the hour!_'

'Oh … that's … that's great.' Atlanta felt a sick jolt in her stomach, and realised, with some surprise, that it was excitement.

'Isn't it?' Benjamin was still holding on to the doorknob, twisting it back and forth in his small fist.

'Yeah, it's really great, Benjo. Um, you don't happen to know how we crossed the channel do you, Benjo? Only, we were in England one moment and then … ' Atlanta shook her head. It was all very confusing, and she couldn't fathom how the train worked. If she thought she would get a straightforward answer though, she was sadly mistaken.

'Bailey – Mr Clarke – he says,' Benjamin screwed up his face in concentration, 'he says we don't take the most direct route – that's why we're travelling the countryside – but we take the most pleasant route.'

'Oh … right. Did you like your drawing, Benjo?' Atlanta eyed the door apprehensively; if he didn't stop maltreating the poor doorknob soon, it was sure to break right off.

'Oh, yes! It's great! Well, see you, Atlanta, I've got to tell _everyone _the good news!'

And he was off, leaving the door swinging gently in time with the movement of the train.

About half an hour after Benjamin had departed, when Atlanta had closed the door and managed to get a few minutes restless sleep, there was another knock on the door. With a jerk, Atlanta awoke.

'Come in!' she called groggily, fumbling in her attempt to sit up quickly. Brushing hair out of her eyes, she stood up in time to see three people enter the room. One of them she recognised as Bailey, the circus proprietor. The other two, a man and a woman, she was unfamiliar with, though she did think she might have seen them on previous trips to the circus when she was much younger. They must be twins – they looked about the same age, and both had shockingly red hair.

'Atlanta,' Bailey smiled warmly at her, 'I just thought I'd drop in and introduce you to my … partners in crime.'

'Partners in crime? For goodness sake, Bailey, we're not bank robbers!' The woman gave an amused roll of her eyes and held out her hand to Atlanta, who shook it.

'I'm Penelope – but everyone calls me Poppet. I believe you've visited me before – in the fortune teller's tent?'

Atlanta gasped. She could hardly believe this woman, with her bright red hair and her light, cheerful voice was the same woman who she had seen sitting behind veils in a dark and mysterious tent.

'You … you're the fortune teller? Sorry,' she added hastily, 'I just didn't expect to ever meet you properly, that's all.'

Poppet smiled in an understanding sort of way.

'That's all right. I quite understand.'

'And this is Winston – Widget,' said Bailey, gesturing to Poppet's twin.

'Pleased to meet you. Bailey's told us a lot about you,' his eyes roved over her face, missing nothing, giving nothing away. Except – is that pity? Maybe she just imagined it, but Atlanta had the impression that Widget could see more than most.

Shaking her head to clear it, Atlanta realised that Widget was speaking again.

' … Pavilion of Memories. Perhaps you've visited before?'

'Oh, yes!' Atlanta's eyes lit up with enthusiasm, 'I love that tent.'

Widget smiled. 'Thank you. If you're ever looking for inspiration, something to draw, you're free to use my tent for ideas.'

'Thank you, I'll remember that.'

They talked for some time more before Bailey suddenly remembered that he had left Benjamin alone in the train's kitchens.

'If I don't go back now, he'll eat us out of house and home,' he said, looking as if he meant it. His companions laughed, bid Atlanta goodbye and left her alone once more.

_Paris_. They'd arrived at last. The air was cool and crisp, the light watery. Atlanta wove her way through the crowd of circus-workers, a grin fixed firmly on her face, seeking out one person in particular. It took a shorter time than she had expected to find her friend, and when she did find her, she almost walked straight into her.

'Frey – I mean, Evangeline!' She stopped herself just in time, remembering that they were in public.

'Atlanta!' Freya's eyes widened in surprise at seeing her friend again.

'I was looking for you.' Atlanta observed, with a degree of sadness, the pleasure that her words sparked in Freya. This girl was obviously unused to acceptance.

'I thought we could explore Paris a bit. I mean,' she continued, gesturing around her, 'I don't think we're needed just now, and we've got a good few hours before sunset.'

Freya beamed, obvious pleasure showing on her face.

'I'd like that. It'll be nice to get out of the crowd for a bit.'

They had a pleasant afternoon together. Atlanta couldn't help liking Freya, despite knowing that she had lied quite purposefully to her. There was something about her … somehow, she seemed to have walked into Atlanta's life at just the right time. Atlanta, so eager for and yet so nervous of freedom, was comforted by the very presence of Freya, who seemed determined to control herself and her life with strict boundaries lest anything go wrong like it had done before. They matched each other well, tempering each other's personalities and pasts like light matches shadow.

For that afternoon, Atlanta was able to escape. Nothing and no one restricted her now – she had a home, a job, and a friend who was already a better family than she had ever had at the theatre.

The rain came suddenly, and with little warning. The sky rolled with thick black clouds, and the girls stood shivering, their clothes clinging to their skin, their hair hanging in sodden tendrils.

'Let's get out of this – look, over there,' Freya was pointing towards a small café, tucked between a book shop and an ice cream parlour.

Atlanta nodded, and the two girls ran towards the building, slipping and sliding on the rain-slicked pavement.

A bell jangled merrily above them as the two girls entered the café, sopping wet but laughing at their ungainly entrance.

'Coffee? Or perhaps hot chocolate?'

Freya smiled, 'I think this weather calls for hot chocolate, don't you?'

Atlanta gave a smile in return, and before long the pair of them were sitting clutching steaming mugs of hot chocolate at a small table by the window, which was foggy with condensation.

'So … ' Atlanta wasn't quite sure where to begin, 'what will you be doing at the circus? I mean,' she gestured at the sky outside , 'apart from getting rained upon.'

Freya smiled ruefully. 'I won't be performing, exactly. I have a tent, but I'm here more in an advisory capacity. I'll be looking at people's auras and … judging what needs to be improved. I don't know if I'll have much work, to be honest. And what about you? I'm afraid we seem to have become acquainted with each other's pasts before our present selves. Who we were, not who we are.'

Atlanta nodded slowly, realising the truth in her friends' words. When she next spoke, however, she asked another question of her own.

'Do you have any paper to hand? It'd be easier to demonstrate what I do than tell you, I think.'

Freya looked slightly surprised, but she pulled a notebook from her pocket and handed it to Atlanta.

'Thank you.'

Atlanta opened the notebook, trying not to see what might have been written on the pages – she caught glimpses of what look like they must be detailed drawings of auras, and pages and pages of notes, but she didn't linger over any of them. Reaching a blank page, she took a pen from her own pocket and glanced around for inspiration.

'Name an animal,' she said finally, deciding to give up thinking for herself for a moment.

'Elephant.'

Atlanta gave a small laugh, imagining the reactions of people in the coffee shop if an elephant (however vapour-like) were to appear in their midst.

'Could you think of something a bit smaller? Something not so noticeable?'

Freya was evidently intrigued.

'OK … how about a rabbit?'

Atlanta nodded, and began to draw. It didn't take her long, the rabbit becoming more life-like with each stroke of the pen. When she has finished, the rabbit (who was obviously a baby) instantly began to move upon the page, sitting up and twitching its nose, then beginning to wash its ears with quick, neat movements from its paws. Atlanta chanced a quick glance at Freya. Her eyes were wide, her expression shocked.

Smiling slightly, Atlanta looked once more upon the baby bunny.

'Now, little rabbit, go _free_.'

A soft whispering began, emanating from the little rabbit, who suddenly froze, then seemed to seep of the page, the ink flowing into the air. Freya's mouth fell open as the translucent whisper of a rabbit hopped across the table to her, its little nose quivering as it sat up and sniffed at her. Its eyes were jewel bright, its whiskers the faintest quivering of air, a soft froth of smoke wreathing about its paws.

'Oh, Atlanta … it's beautiful … '

Atlanta beamed, and the rabbit vanished, reappearing in Freya's notebook in the same second.

'Here. He's yours to keep.'

Atlanta handed Freya's notebook back to her, grinning as Freya continued to stare at the little ink drawing.

'Will he carry on moving? After you've given him away, I mean?'

'Yes. But he won't come off the page unless I ask him to.'

Freya met Atlanta's eyes, and something passed between them which they would not have been able to describe, had they been asked. Atlanta didn't know why, but in that damp, cosy little café in Paris, with a mug of hot chocolate and a pen in her hand, she became best friends with a girl from Wales who could see auras, and who had come to her that morning intending to tell her the truth, but who had left with a lie fresh upon her lips.

* * *

_There you go! I must say, I was rather pleased about the ending. :)_

_Tabs ~_


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